


Don’t You Cry

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Awkward First Times, Cas Is Slightly Dense, Cuddles, Dean Makes a Point, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Titles for this section come from the glorious Melissa Etheridge's <a href="http://youtu.be/ZUCwwXMbnas">"Talkin' with My Angels."</a></p></blockquote>





	Don’t You Cry

So, in many ways, they go back to the beginning. Or find a new beginning, Castiel isn’t sure which. 

Castiel keeps his hands and his questions to himself. It isn’t the easiest thing he’s ever done but seeing the tension ease out of Dean’s shoulders -- just a little, an inch at a time -- is worth it. Seeing that quick flash of a smile more often is worth it. If he takes a little longer in the shower in the mornings -- well, that’s between him and Boston Water and Sewer and they’re not telling.

It’s been a couple of weeks and Castiel has more or less internalized his own restrictions. 

He and Dean no longer sleep together, and Castiel tries to tell himself this is the kindest letting-down he’s ever had. Some days, he even believes it.

It’s still nice to have a roommate; despite his cracks about ramen and Pop-Tarts, Dean’s a decent cook. He’s not going to win any gourmet awards but he’s careful and he’s got good hands -- Castiel tries not to think about his hands too much but sometimes it’s just inescapable. He’s had dreams that center specifically on Dean’s wrists. And sometimes he wonders if Dean asks him for help in the kitchen as part of some long-drawn out plan of torturing him to death via sexual frustration.

They do still watch movies together and tonight it’s a double-bill: one movie chosen by Castiel, the other by Dean. Dean’s pick had been the original _Thomas Crown Affair_ and Castiel isn’t at all sure what to make of that, so he tries not to think about it.

Castiel is tired, his muscles aching from an unaccustomedly-long yoga class that morning combined with his usual weight routine in the afternoon. Ellen swore by the classes at a local studio and, a little against his better judgment -- because he didn’t have that much spare cash to keep going if he liked it as much as he suspected he would -- Castiel had let himself get roped in to a ‘bring a friend, get a free class’ deal. 

That had been two weeks ago; he’s gone back four times on his own. On top of that, the class and the weights had been the only break in what was otherwise a marathon session crouched over his laptop checking someone else’s footnotes.

Dean is lounging against the pillows on what Castiel sternly resists thinking of as _Dean’s_ side of the bed, watching the opening credits of _The King’s Speech_ with a carefully blank expression on his face.

‘It is not what you think,’ Castiel says, shoving a doubled-up pillow behind the small of his back, wincing and pulling it out again.

‘What isn’t?’ Dean glances at him.

‘The movie. It is not boring.’

‘I never said--’

Castiel tries the pillow under his hips which just makes him feel unsteady, then rolled up behind his knees which comes the closest to relieving the pressure in his mid-back. ‘I can tell by the look on your face.’

‘Are you feeling okay?’

‘Why?’ Castiel rests back against his palisade of cushions for a minute, then grimaces and leans forward, punching at the pillow behind his shoulders.

‘Well, you can’t sit still and you’re snappy as hell.’

‘I am _not--’_ Castiel gives up and lets himself collapse back onto the pillows, ignoring the twinge of overused muscles. ‘My back hurts.’

‘Okay, c’mon.’ 

The clap of Dean’s hand on his shoulder makes him start and he scowls at Dean. ‘What?’

‘Shift up.’ Dean’s pushing at his shoulder, urging him forward.

Castiel goes, edging forward an inch at a time until Dean’s fingers stop pushing and just rest on his shoulderblade. ‘Now wh--’ 

The words dry up in his throat as he feels Dean slide himself over on the bed, stretching his legs wide to either side of Castiel, and then gently tug back on his shoulder. 

Rather ungratefully, his first thought is: _What the hell did I do to deserve this?_

‘Dean, this is not--’

‘C’mon. ‘m good at this.’ Dean tugs on his shoulder again and Castiel flinches.

Dean sighs and leans forward, his breath warm on the back of Castiel’s neck and if this is meant to calm him down, it isn’t working. ‘And I never did this back of a dumpster, ‘kay, Cas? So get back here and let me fix you up.’

Slowly, completely unsure that this is a good idea, Castiel lets himself be tugged back until he’s snugly ensconced between Dean’s thighs, warm hands on his shoulders, warm all around him, really-- He slams the door on that train of thought before it can go an inch further but he can feel the tingle of excitement anyway. It’s not like Dean has to _know_ anything about that, he tells himself.

‘Let me know if anything hurts,’ Dean says and he begins rubbing light circles on Castiel’s shoulders, just above the shoulder blades.

Castiel is about to interrupt and say that’s not where his back hurts when Dean goes on, quietly: ‘Just want to get your muscles warmed up a bit.’ His hands move in wider circles, stroking over the locked-tight muscle between Castiel’s shoulders and Dean makes a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Jesus, Cas, what did you _do?’_

‘Bow pose.’ Castiel brings his knees up and drops his forehead onto his hands, making himself the most convenient possible package for Dean to work on.

‘Well, stretch more before you do it next time.’ Dean’s fingers curve around the tops of Castiel’s hips, slotting neatly into the groove of muscle, and his thumbs find spots on either side of Castiel’s low spine that shoot heat straight into his belly and Castiel bites the inside of his lip hard to keep from making some sound.

Dean snorts and shifts position slightly, tugging Castiel back against him until, whether or not Castiel thinks it’s a good idea, his hips, his ass, are flush with Dean’s crotch and there’s no way he can clench his teeth tightly enough to avoid some sound leaking out.

‘You okay?’ Dean’s hands pause over his ribs.

Castiel squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth. ‘Yes.’

Castiel thinks that Dean is going to say something else but he just blows out a long breath and goes back to kneading the band of muscle below Castiel’s shoulder blades.

Castiel hugs his knees, closes his eyes hard enough to see colored sparks, and gives up: Dean’s hands feel _wonderful_ : warm, solid, pleasantly heavy against his sore muscles, and bordering on but not crossing the line between enough pressure and too much.

For a minute, Castiel thinks that Nellie must have jumped onto the bed without his noticing until he realises the faint groaning noise is coming from him. 

_Oh, shit._

Dean chuckles and the vibration comes through his palms into Castiel's spine. ‘Feel good?’

‘I...I...’ Castiel stumbles over his own tongue and can feel himself blushing.

‘Good. That’s the point.’ Dean’s knuckles press along his spine for a minute, then he adds, ‘Learned to do this for my dad.’

Castiel feels the pleasant warmth swelling in his gut die back.

‘Well,’ Dean adds, ‘he dislocated his shoulders so many times he couldn’t walk straight some days.’

Dean’s hands still feel good -- warm and firm and confident -- but Castiel wants to twist away. This really isn’t fair -- it _is_ another tease -- and he hates himself for thinking ‘another’ but, honestly, what does Dean--

‘Got a guy to teach me,’ Dean goes on, one hand smoothing down over Castiel’s spine, stroking a long firm line from neck to hips and Castiel can’t stop the shudder that goes through him. When Dean speaks again, it sounds like he’s smiling. ‘He looked kinda like you -- not so cute, though. A genuine massage-school dropout,’ he adds conversationally, despite the fact that Castiel has said nothing in return. 

_A bathroom stall rather than a dumpster,_ Castiel thinks gloomily.

‘Used Dad’s bed when he was out of town for a week.’ Castiel feels Dean’s hands shift slightly as he shrugs. ‘Then he was gone.’

Then Castiel feels the warm press of muscle all along his back and it’s all he can do not to gasp when one of Dean’s hands descends on each of his thighs and his voice is a whisper in one ear. ‘I didn’t spend all my time on my knees, Cas.’

 _Jesus._ Castiel fights back a nearly instinctive groan. ‘I never thought--’

‘Maybe not-- but you've been fighting shy of me like I’ve got somethin’ catching.’ Dean’s fingers snake under Castiel’s wrist and grab one of his hands, intertwining their fingers before Castiel can do anything but sit upright. Before he can do anything _else,_ his hand is planted firmly on Dean’s knee and Dean’s hand is pinning him in place. 

Castiel twists back awkwardly. ‘I thought -- I was trying to be considerate.’

‘Yeah, well, you’ve been considerate. All kinds of considerate.’ Dean’s eyebrows quirk upwards. ‘I mean--’ He spreads his hands and, for a heart-stopping second, Castiel feels Dean’s thighs tighten around his own hips. ‘--I’ll admit this is pretty fucking obvious but you didn’t seem to be getting the hint any other way.’

Castiel clenches his teeth for a last second, arguing silently with himself over the propriety of simply curling up against Dean’s chest and worrying about the rest of it later.

‘Jesus -- you’re not gonna break me, okay?’ Dean’s hands slide around Cas’ sides, teasing at his waistband for a moment before flattening along his thighs. Castiel bites back a whimper; his dick doesn’t know this isn’t going anywhere and if Dean goes _any_ lower he’ll know all about it. ‘I’m...'m _okay,_ Cas. Maybe I’m kinda fucked-up, but you’re not gonna break me. Not like this.’

‘I...I don’t want to make you--’

‘You’re not.’ Dean’s voice is firm; if that weren’t enough, he takes Castiel’s hand off his knee and, without further preamble, plants it over the fly of his jeans, pressing Castiel’s palm down. 

Castiel forgets to breathe; every nerve ending in his body is focused on the rough denim under his hand -- and the warm hardness behind _that--_ _Fuck -- oh fuck me--_

‘See?’ Dean’s breath is a soft warmth against his cheek and Castiel jerks as Dean’s hand settles over his crotch. ‘I think we can work this out, Cas.’

Words crash together in Castiel’s head: _I don’t want to make you -- Zach-- and I hated it -- I don’t want you to -- it’s all right, really, I don’t mind--_ And he can’t put any of them together in a sentence. His brain is rapidly shorting out into flashes of sensation and, with a sound he’s pretty sure is a whimper, he twists around and presses his mouth to Dean’s. 

It’s awkward and his back complains mightily until he manages to shift so he’s almost up on one knee between Dean’s thighs -- but none of that is enough to make him pull away when Dean kisses back, lips opening slightly under his, the tease of a tongue at the corner of his mouth.

‘I don’t -- I really--’ Castiel keeps trying to put together sentences, trying to tell Dean that he doesn’t _have_ to do this, there isn’t some kind of expiry period, and, pathetic as it is, Castiel will wait -- but it’s a little difficult to frame them coherently when Dean’s tongue is running over the inside of his lower lip and hands are digging under his shirt, pushing down the waist of his loose pajama pants, and-- ‘Oh...oh, _fuck...’_

‘Jesus, Cas...’ Dean leans forward, cradling Castiel in his free arm, staring down at his hand and Castiel’s cock as if he hasn’t ever seen one before.

‘What -- _what?’_ Castiel is digging the fingers of his free hand into the comforter, desperately trying not to rut against Dean’s palm like a horny teenager. Under his fingers, he can feel Dean’s cock jump against the restraining zipper and he starts trying to fumble it down. He strikes lucky, gets his thumb caught above the pull of the zipper and yanks the whole thing down in one go. Dean bucks up into his hand and Castiel can feel dampness soaking through the cloth of his boxers. ‘Fuck...I can’t...I can’t---’

‘Here -- here --’ Dean’s shifting, sliding out from behind him and Castiel can’t stop the disappointed whine that comes from his throat. Dean grins at him and kneels up on the bed. He skins off his t-shirt in one move and, while Castiel is still staring at his shoulders, slips his unfastened jeans down his hips, kicking them off awkwardly over his feet without getting up. 

There isn’t a lot of light in the room -- a single lamp and the television -- but Castiel’s mouth is watering and he wants nothing more than to lean forward and put his tongue on every inch of pale, freckled skin he can reach. He catches a glimpse of a scar on Dean’s left breastbone, just above the nipple -- but that’s all he gets a chance to see before Dean is pulling his legs straight and-- ‘Oh, dear God--’

Dean grins at him again as he settles over Castiel’s thighs, pushing the pajama pants the rest of the way off with the side of a foot. ‘This okay?’ He’s not resting his full weight on Castiel’s legs and Castiel wants to reach out and tug him forward, get that lovely smooth warm skin resting against his but he can feel the warning burn between his shoulderblades and moving just this much has been uncomfortable enough to make his erection wilt. He nods. ‘Yes, it’s -- it’s fine--’

‘Think we can probably do better than that--’ Dean leans forward, carefully taking his weight on his knees, and pushes Castiel’s t-shirt up, running his hands over abdomen, chest, ribs. ‘Jesus, Cas...’

‘You -- you said that before--’ Castiel pants, dragging his shirt off over his head. ‘Why?’

Dean gives him a look of sheer incredulity. ‘Have you _seen_ you?’

Castiel wants to laugh in his face. ‘Have _you_ seen _you?’_

Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop what he's doing to explain himself. Leaning a tiny bit further forward, still carefully taking most of his weight on his hands, he leaves light kisses along Castiel’s collarbone, exploring the hollow of his throat with the tip of his tongue.

Castiel gasps in breath, tilting his head back to give Dean better access. Dean hums in satisfaction and licks his way up the side of Castiel’s throat, nibbling at the curve of his earlobe. 

Reflexively, Castiel grabs at whatever’s under his hands, trying to anchor himself. He can feel warm, slightly hairy skin, hard muscle shifting under his palms -- and the brush of silky soft, damp skin against the side of his thumb. 

Dean gasps and stiffens, his hands clenching at Castiel’s ribs.

‘Dean?’ Castiel freezes.

‘I...’ Dean swallows audibly and drops his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder. ‘I...uh...yeah, nobody’s done that. In -- in a long time. I --fucking--- _fuck--’_

Castiel slides his free hand around Dean’s back and eases the other one over the length of Dean’s cock, squeezing slightly, just enough so Dean can feel he’s there. Dean groans again from deep in his chest and Castiel can feel the reverberation through his hand. Castiel shifts slightly so he can brace against Dean’s shoulder and look down at what he’s doing; the last thing he wants to do is slide the wrong way.

Dean’s not entirely hard, but he’s getting there, a firm weight in Castiel’s palm. Cas swallows once or twice, getting a grip on his impulse to bend down and see how much of Dean’s length he can take in his mouth -- he isn’t freakishly huge, probably wouldn't insist on trying to fuck Castiel's tonsils down his throat, and Castiel can imagine the feel and the _taste_ and _God_ he wants that. He's not sure how he got out of years with Zach with any taste for blow jobs left but _fuck_ is he glad of it right now. But that’s something he doesn’t want to get wrong and there’s no way he could do it the way he wants to -- _slow, soft, tasting every inch, stretching time, making Dean sweat_ \-- with his back as it is. 

Instead, he cups Dean’s balls for a minute, weighing them in the palm of his hand, listening to Dean’s breathing go rough in his ear.

‘Cas...y’don’t--’

‘Sssh. Just...let me...’ Castiel strokes a fingertip over the soft, damp head and smoothes his hand back to the base. Dean jerks against him, breath hissing in hard. ‘Tell me...tell me if I get it wrong...Dean, promise me?’

‘Promise, I promise, I--pleasedon’tstop--’ The last words come out jammed together and Castiel feels the flutter against his skin as Dean closes his eyes, pushing against him. 

Castiel resettles his arm around Dean’s back, sliding his hand forward to rest on Dean’s hip, shifting his own hips slightly to allow his own cock a little more room. That can wait, though; he wants to focus on this. The room has narrowed to the space that holds the two of them, the sweat and arousal he can smell coming from both of them, mixing into something heady and strong. He wants this to last for the rest of the night and he wants to come right _now_ and he’s not sure which he wants more.

‘Fuck, Cas, _please--’_ Dean’s hips push against him and Castiel realises Dean’s fingers have fisted along his ribs. 

‘Yes, I...yes...’ Castiel gives up on philosophy and concentrates on jacking Dean as well as he can. Dean gets wet fast, thick, musky liquid smearing along Castiel’s fingers and palm and making the slide faster and harder. Dean’s breathing gets rougher and more ragged until he finally gasps in a deep breath, goes still for a moment, then comes, flooding across Castiel’s hand, his thigh, his hip. 

Castiel gentles the last shakes out of him, then wraps his arms around him, holding him safe as Dean starts to breathe again. He can feel the steady pulse between his own legs, the hot throb against his lower abdomen but he bites the side of his tongue and ignores himself as best he can. 

‘Cas...Cas, I...’ Dean stops, drags in a deep breath, and tries something that’s meant to be a laugh but Castiel can hear the catch in it. ‘That wasn’t what I planned.’

‘No?’ 

‘No, I--’ One of Dean’s hands fumbles down Castiel’s stomach and finds the tip of his cock, swollen and hard against his lower abdomen. Castiel hisses as gentle fingers wrap around him. ‘I meant to--I mean, I--’ He stills, hand unmoving, and Castiel thinks he gets a glimmering of insight. He hadn’t thought of it before but of course, it makes perfect sense; no-one pays money to get someone _else_ off. If that has ever happened, he’s never heard of it. Coming first, coming at _all--_ God, how long has it been? And what has Dean had to do to learn to turn his body off? Or to live with it? Castiel has to swallow hard against a mix of questions he’s not sure he wants the answer to and sheer unadulterated _rage._ He presses his cheek to Dean’s chest, listens to the steadily slowing thump under his ear, and closes his eyes.

‘Cas?’ Dean’s voice is steadier and his hand is firmer, pressing over the base of Castiel’s cock.

‘Here -- here, like this--’ He eases back slightly and puts his hand over Dean’s, carefully shaping his fingers, letting Dean be the one in touch with skin but guiding him. The contact makes him shudder, the slight, tentative explorations Dean starts to make with his fingertips, pressing under his balls, back along the sensitive stretch of skin between his legs, around the head of his cock and under his foreskin.

Dean stretches out a fingertip and strokes around the head of Castiel’s cock, easing the foreskin and making Castiel shiver. ‘Dean, I -- Dean--’

‘Sssh -- s’okay -- just--’ Dean gives a squeeze and that’s it, Castiel shoves up into his hand, against his hip, practically crying out as he comes, smearing warmth between them and not even caring when it drips down to stain the comforter cover.

**Author's Note:**

> Titles for this section come from the glorious Melissa Etheridge's ["Talkin' with My Angels."](http://youtu.be/ZUCwwXMbnas)


End file.
